


down here it's made of wood and wire

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Modern AU, Prompt Fill, Songfic but not, but it's a guy who looks awfully like him, cos it's not Krennic, links will be provided, shameless rapturous romanticism, so it's Jynnic but not, that too yes, there is music yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7537927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jyn Erso takes refuge from her horrible day in a smoky bar. There's a guy playing slow jazz at the piano.</p>
            </blockquote>





	down here it's made of wood and wire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onstraysod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts).



> So I woke up this morning and there was a message in my inbox from an utterly shameless person who knows full well how much fic I'm working on and have planned. And so this happened.
> 
> You may want to have [Spotify's piano/jazz instrumental playlist on](https://play.spotify.com/user/statecafe/playlist/6Lcab3knjOM4eT385ARODo) if you like since that's what I wrote most of this to.
> 
> Title from _The Mercy Seat_ by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. 
> 
> Right click and open the links in the fic in a new window if you want.

It’s a small basement bar, tattered velvet drapes and dank booths with the leather seats all soft and torn. Jyn Erso wants nothing more than a drink and some peace before she has to go back to her insanely chaotic apartment with her insanely loud engineering student flatmates. Exams are done for the semester and they’ve been partying for like forty-eight hours straight. It’s the last damned thing she needs after working all day.

So she’s hunched over in the furthest booth, staring gloomily into her vodka cranberry because she’s such a girl after all, and vaguely listening to the piano. It’s not a song she knows but lord, it’s beautiful. And aching. She broods and drinks and listens and broods and drinks and listens. The songs are all slow melancholy, the kind of deep sound she loves but never has the guts to admit she wants. She’s not getting drunk, that’s not the point and anyway she’s not that stupid to leave herself so vulnerable and alone in this day and age. There’s the debris of a meal before her, and she’s idly picking fries off the smeared plate as she listens to the melody trickling through the air. And drinking.

There aren’t many people in the bar, either too late or too early, she can’t tell which. And anyway, when she looks up and peers through the dim space, it’s the piano she’s looking for. The bar is one of those strange holes under the city, a basement of odd arches and struts, corners and tables interrupting and angling every sightline. And even though it’s not possible in this day and age, the air seems full of smoke, maybe the ghosts of so many decades, maybe the grime and age off the bare brick walls. There at the far end, under a wavering ghost light, past the deserted tables and chairs, half hidden by an arch, is the piano. She edges out of the booth to get a better look as the melody turns sweet and pretty. 

No glossy upright grand, no fine flamboyant showman. The bar is small and unpretentious, and the piano is old and battered, the guy in dark trousers and a slightly crumpled white shirt that catches the ghost light. Jyn takes her drink and moves closer, drawn by the song, drawn by the sight. 

Maybe he’s playing for himself, unaware of the few other stragglers in the bar. Behind the counter, a tall surprisingly attractive guy is wiping glasses and chatting quietly with a woman customer. Jyn sneaks through the tables and sits at the one closest to the piano, just out of the player’s line of sight. He finishes the song, and drops his hands, drops his shoulders with a sort of sigh. She looks at his hair tufting and messy on the collar of his shirt. The light glimmers it with silver. She wants to ask him to play another, even opens her mouth to say the words, but her voice evaporates and anyway, she doesn’t need to. 

With one hand, he tries out a few notes on the keys, a sort of curiosity in the tilt in his head. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the light catches blond hairs on his arms, catches the shape of wrist bones pressing up under pale skin. Does he play here every night? Is he some failed genius? Or somebody, somebody like she wants to be one day? Jyn watches him start a small interesting little tune, and she drinks, looking at the way his torso moves with the rhythm he finds, the way his shoulders move. He could be nobody at all. Suddenly she wants to know. And in the very next moment, the desire for connection melts away. Because it’s so hard, isn’t it? The playful melody lies, it’s so hard to speak and make a connection with someone else. And anyway … Jyn glances away at the tall bartender and the woman he flirts with … anyway, what’s the point? 

When the song ends, the piano player takes in a deep breath and, before Jyn can pretend to look elsewhere, he turns and stands up, already moving towards the counter. She buries her face in her glass, only then realising it’s empty. Her cheeks are burning, she knows he’s seen her and maybe she shocked him. Maybe she’s sitting too close, broken some rule of piano etiquette. But no, he ambles away and she concentrates on calming her heartbeat. It’s just one slightly strange night, she should probably go home. But the thought of that loud messy apartment exhausts her, and she’d much rather stay here where it’s safe and peaceful and dark. So Jyn curls up in the chair, watching the light catch colours and reflections in the facets of her empty glass, as she waits for the piano player to come back.

It never occurs to her that he may not.

She reacts a little too late to the full glass being set down on her table, alarmed eyes flying up to find him smiling gently at her. And then she’s mesmerised by the utter sweetness of his smile, by his face and all its curves and creases, by his eyes a deep beautiful unnameable colour. He says nothing, just smiles at her and returns to his seat at the piano. Jyn stares at his back in the white shirt, now seeing how he’s aware of her, how he doesn’t mind her watching. He places his own drink on the flat top of the piano, dark gold in its depths. And she relaxes into her chair as he starts to play again.

One song slides into another, sometimes slow and sad, sometimes uplifting and jazzy, sometimes strangely beautiful and classical. They don’t speak, or maybe he speaks to her through the music. It’s an absurd lovely thought, so ridiculously poetic for someone so pragmatic as her. She gazes at the dark grey loops of hair around his ears, at the glimpses of the side of his face, and thinks about how very alone she is in this city.

He rounds off a soft trickle of notes, aching her heart, and reaches for his drink. Somehow it seems like he’s waiting for her to speak. Maybe she’s imagining it, or maybe she just wants to. It seems possible now. He returns the glass to the top of the piano and she takes in a breath.

“I think I know that one …” Her voice scratches in her throat, the first time she’s used it since she came off her shift so many hours ago. 

“Yeah?” he replies without looking at her, his head bent as he searches the keys for another melody. “Do you know this one?”

His voice is quiet, a sort of instinctual sound without any sort of pretence. She likes that about him, remembers the utter guilelessness of his smile. Every nerve in her body seems to strain towards him, pulled by the wordless beautiful music. She listens to him play, measuring the distance between them, what it would take for her to move out from behind the table and cross over to him, how self-conscious she would feel, a small slight girl with big eyes and big mouth and far too much vulnerability to hide from the world.

“No,” she says when the melody trails off. “But it was so pretty …”

He turns his head a little, just enough to smile at her over his shoulder. He has such kind eyes, the sort of kindness that asks nothing in return. As his hands move on the keys again, the angle of his head following the movement, she goes to him, sensing that he won’t mind. And he doesn’t, finding a nice easy melody as she sits beside him, her back to the piano and her eyes oddly hungry on his face. Now that he’s so close, now that her shoulder brushes his, she can see the thousand beautiful freckles across his skin. He smiles a little to himself as she looks at him but it’s not the smugness of an overconfident man. It’s maybe half in response to the song, half in response to the company.

She cradles her drink, shoulders hunching a little as she watches his hands and watches his face, as he plays something she does recognise in a sort of cliched way but can’t name. It doesn’t seem to matter that she can’t speak his language, somehow right now it only matters that they speak and not in words. When he glances at her during the song, she smiles instinctively at him, wanting to give that much back, and he smiles back at her before his head turns to follow the notes. The contour of his throat fascinates her, the way his skin gleams warm against the open collar, the way his bones are framed delicate and lovely at the base of his throat. Maybe they do speak in those little smiles as the music lifts them, as it swirls the smoky air around them, as it connects them.

When a song finishes, someone calls out “Gerry!”

It should have pulled them out of their dreamy world but it doesn’t, the music too hypnotic and the air too close. She doesn’t even look away from him, merely knows it’s the tall bartender who calls out with something like amusement or fondness in his voice. “Gerry, I’m closing up, all right?”

Gerry lifts his hand in acknowledgement, maybe there’s a muffled laugh from the back of the bar, but he’s looking at her face with a sweet appreciation, and she feels that sensation again of every part of her yearning towards him. He looks at her eyes, looks at her mouth and then back down at the piano keys, a warmth about him that’s irresistible. She breathes in, happy. 

With the bar emptied and closed, it becomes so much more their private space. The counter colours have shaded down, there is just the burn of the exit sign and the soft glow of the light above them. He plays two more sweet tunes, then starts something slow and oddly ponderous. It’s a bare unvarnished melody, so full of hidden power. And she says without thinking, “[Can you sing it too?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onbC5Ny3tUc&list=PLrEcGBbqZG9sdwXfS03bQvYcQFxPjgHb1&index=39)”

His expression barely flickers, watching his hands move with such precision, and she watches his mouth when he sings. It’s not a high sweet song, it’s dark and dragging and something she responds to with a silent savage delight. His mouth is so vulnerable and soft on the cruel words, his lower lip glistening a little. And he sees her looking there, catches her gaze on the chorus of death. Again, he looks at her eyes and then at her mouth, one, two, three, and then back again, his mouth tender and wet. Her skin is warm now. 

“What was that one?” she asks when it ends, setting her glass aside and touching his forearm without thinking. 

His lashes flick down, pale against his fine skin. “The Mercy Seat,” he says. 

“Nick Cave.” She remembers. Her hand is still on his arm, just the touch of fingertips. When he looks at her with deep approval, she feels herself glow a little. “I haven’t heard that version,” she says. “It was wonderful.”

Gerry smiles at her long and slow. His eyes are blue, a deep faceted colour with so much light and darkness. She wonders what colour they are in the daylight, somehow knows they'd be a subtly different shade then in the bright sun.

“Will you sing me another Nick?” she asks, willing him to know the one. The corner of his mouth curls. He grins at her out of the corner of his eye, a twinkle that makes her heart leap and laugh. Because yes, it may be a cliche but she loves it and he’s lovely enough to do it for her.

He plays _[Into My Arms](https://youtu.be/gxAOL_w2Ujo)_ and sings it with all the careful delicacy she wants, finding the hope and beauty rather than the sadness ghosting around them, keeping the darkness at bay. Her heart pulses and fills as she watches, as the melody builds and his eyes gleam, as it lifts them both. In her mind she sings the harmony to him but stays silent so she can hear. And when his hands slow on the keys, when the notes hang pure and lovely around them, she leans in and he parts his lips on a sigh as she turns his face to hers and kisses him.

It’s a consummation of all her longing and all her response to the beautiful artless warmth of him. And it’s a beginning full of discovery and promise, finding a connection of breath and skin and tenderness, finding so much delicious possibility. She draws back, so warm all over, and takes a breath in, her eyes wide as she looks at him. Gerry’s eyes are slow and almost feline now, a sort of sultry blue shape that tilts his smile at her. He touches his hand to her waist, a gentle instinctual question to which she answers without hesitation because there’s nothing to doubt, nothing to fear. Jyn Erso kisses him again and climbs into his lap, wedging herself between his body and the piano. Her arms wrap around his head, hands ruffling his fine silver hair, and she kisses him deep and dragging and devouring, joyful at the way his hands pull her closer and his mouth arches up into hers. 

He takes her to the small apartment above the bar, and in the morning introduces her to the cat who creeps into their bed. He’ll tell her about his little daughter and that he owns the basement bar, that he used to have a gambling problem but hasn’t felt the need for about a year now. She never moves out.

**Author's Note:**

> The message I woke up to: "I know you need prompt ideas like you need a hole in the head, but consider this (it's short and sweet): Gerry plays the piano for Jyn. I'm sorry."
> 
> To which I groaned and yelled "Goddamn you, Lynne!", rolled over, buried my face in the pillow and started writing this in my head. Because Lynne knows very well that I cannot resist Gerry. That Gerry is our goddamned kryptonite. *sobs* Protect Gerry forever.
> 
> And I don't care if it is a goddamned cliche that I used _Into My Arms_. That song is just GOLD and Ben would sing the fuck out of it, I just know he would cos he loves Nick too cos he ain't stupid. Yes.
> 
> Shameless rapturous romanticism cos apparently this is where I'm at in my Jynnic journey.
> 
> And in case you wondered, this is what Gerry looks like:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> You can thank dawn_quijote for those.


End file.
